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“Oh, no! Help me!” she panics, speaking in a hushed voice.
“Dani, breathe!” Giselle urges.
“No, no! It’s ruined! The wedding’s going to be ruined!”
“Hang in there, baby! I’ll fix it!”
“You sure you can –”
“Yes, I can –”
“Are you su–”
“I’m doing it, aren’t I!”
“I just! Ah! Dammit! Help!”
“Shut up, Dani, I’m dealing –”
My lips twitch, torn between bursting with laughter or standing up and going to slap both of my best friends.
“
A giggle escapes my clamped lips.
She is, as Giselle would say, without her face. Because her makeup melted. And that’s what all the commotion was about. But now, after their wrestling match, her hair that had been elegantly piled up on her head is now lopsided, the tiny white flower ornament in it half falling out and her eyeliner smudging all the way to her nose.
“This isn’t funny!” But something about her desperate voice and her wild eyes make it seem very funny to me. And so I fall into fits of laughter.
Trying to hold it in, my stomach aches intensely. “So –” chortle. “So –” giggle. “ – rry –” snort. “Sorry!” And so I give up and let myself burst with laughter.
Giselle who had been standing at the side, her striking face screwed up into a permanent frown. “This isn’t funny,
“Alright, alright,” I wheeze, wiping tears out of my eyes.
“I’m ruined!” Dani cried.
I roll my eyes at her with a smile. “Dani, Mina should be back from the, uh, reception soon.”
Wilhelmina is my photography assistant, a.k.a. makeup artist. Also, best friend number three. It’s funny how things worked out there.
I had just hired her after I fired old Mackerel (I’m not kidding, on his ID writes: Mackerel Simon) who was a smart mouth idiot who decided to go and get into an affair with one of my clients – my wedding photo clients. He was the worst yet, and believe me, I’ve seen a lot of bad. Like Ember Little, who was an heiress who jumped from one thing to another overnight, and decided to quit being my assistant on one gigantic event after only five weeks – and she didn’t even do a good job! All the late night partying resulted to a lot of heavy hangovers. Or Penny Dawn, who was a crackpot, depressed and threatened to kill herself many times when I wanted to fire her when she ‘couldn’t’ show up for work. So naturally I was tired of hiring assistants and was contemplating not bothering to do so at all. But I decided to give it one shot. And my hopes weren’t high.
The list of requirements wrote: 1) not a crackpot, 2) not depressed, 3) not an heir/heiress, 4) not an idiot, 5) obeys 2 out of 10 orders.
Then this high-flying girl walks in, with windblown hair, serious face, professional-looking suit and a manic glint in her eyes that screamed determination. I shot straight and thought, this could be it.
And so it was.
She was very profession, detached. Came in for work, went off straight after. Gave a hundred percent and spoke not one word of her personal life. I never asked. I was grateful to get such help.
And then one day, she turned up for work looking a little like she was hung-over. I didn’t mind. This was by far the best assistant. She couldn’t be perfect. Then, Dani and our prancing model friend, Giselle skipped in after an ‘accident’ which involved about five cars and Giselle’s Prada shoes. It seemed that some, quote, ‘idiot’ ran over Giselle’s shoes in the middle of a busy road while they were crossing it and she screamed at him. The traffic light turned red and an old Ford nearly hit Giselle with her furious, dramatically flailing arms and the ‘dodgy’ man who was trying to settle her down a bit and ran into a Porsche instead. Three other cars ran into the old Ford and a fight broke out.
“My Prada shoes!”
“You’re so dramatic, Zell,” I sighed, filing through some christening photos I took the day before.
“I am not! I just like to be frank – and straight –”
“I’d like to be straight, too,” Mina sighed, sounding rather resigned.
We all turned to stare at her, mouths gaping open, in surprise, and Giselle in horror (she had a very bad experience with a, uh… lesbian stalker), then at each other.
Then Dani cleared her throat. “I think you meant straightforward,” she said feebly, to Giselle.
“Oh, no, I mean straight,” to our utter horror, Mina answered. “I’m lesbian. Shocked, are you?” She looked at us emptily. Our faces were plastered with feeble smiles.
“I’m sorry, maybe just a little.” Dani gave her a genuine smile – Dani-style. “We’re not prejudiced or anything. Just… shocked, yes.”
Mina stared at us, curiously. Then she looked down at her fingers and up at us again, giving a resigned sigh. “I’m gonna try men now.”
I grinned – I couldn’t help it. “Cheers to that.”
And to my surprise, she grinned back.
Well, I couldn’t argue. There was no “not lesbian/gay” on my list – and at any rate, I wasn’t bothered, prejudiced or had whatever problem with people who were different. But this was why she walked down my door, for this assistant’s job. Apparently, she admitted, she had the occasional problem of falling in love with her bosses, (I was in utter terror when I heard that), however, she’s over women. “And bending straight!” she said. So I thought, why worry now.
So since then, we’ve been close friends – even Giselle and her lesbian trauma.
“Where is she anyway?” Giselle says impatiently.
“Talking bad about me again, are you, Zellie?” Mina says coolly as she breeze in.
Giselle gives an honest shudder and a grimace. Mina laughs. She likes doing that. Calling Giselle Zellie or little pet names and occasionally acting all seductive and suggestive around her, because it freaks the hell out of Giselle every time.
“Oh, dear, what happened to your face?” Mina lifts Dani’s chin, honestly concerned.
Dani looks like she was going to cry again. “Fix me,” she whimpers.
“Right on in, honey.” She marches off to get her gigantic makeup kit. And when she returns, she squints at me and Giselle. “You two, go change. You, maid of honor, better hurry up.”
I look at her and sure enough, her auburn hair twisted up elegantly, in a simple strapless, knee-length yellow dress, and she’s all ready for her role as Dani’s bridesmaid. Dani had decided to spare us from the ugly bridesmaid dresses. Instead, all of us are wearing simple dresses in yellow with different styles.
I was unceremoniously chosen to be the maid of honor – when, believe it or not, Giselle, the Giselle that was avant-garde, the Giselle that didn’t give a damn about traditions, that Giselle, threw a tantrum about how it was unlucky to be bridesmaid more than once and just refused to do it. It was more or less like a “Nobody bloody cares, Zell! You’re doing it anyway! And you! You’ll be maid of honor! This freakin’ thing’d better work out or it’s off with your head!” Bang! Slammed door.
Dani can be surprisingly vicious under pressure.
And so, the afterthought of
This job includes some really messed up jobs. Like last night’s bachelorette party. I was so embarrassed. It was supposed to be some kind of good-natured, sweet and civilized party, a couple of drinks, really good food and a little bit of entertainment. Then Giselle and Mina decided to pop something on us. And damn, did it pop on me.
“A stripper? A stripper!” I’d roared at Giselle in the lady’s room.
Mina breezed right in. “Relax, relax! I’m in on this, alright?”
I whipped around at her. “A stripper! At the Plaza Hotel! What were you thinking? Oh, I suppose you weren’t –”
Giselle’s eyes blazed and, indignantly, she tossed her hair and fired at me, “Well, excuse us, Miss Run, but we were just trying to help. A bachelorette party like this –”
“Like WHAT?” I’d drawn myself to my full height, which wasn’t so impressive, as they both towered over me. But I knew how terrifying I was when I was pissed. I’ve been informed.
Giselle stepped in. “It’s boring!” she cried. “C’mon, Tay!”
“Enough. Done.” I walked off. “It’s your problem now!” I shouted as I left.
It worked out surprisingly well. A bunch of dancers, a lot of drinks, really loud music, messes left everywhere, some broken glasses and lots of hung-over people, it was… somewhat a normal day out in a bar. Except for the crying cheers “To Danielle!” or “To the bride-to-be!”, or rather creative ones like, “To ten hours of house-keeping, four hours of sleep, twenty-four hour babysitting and no sex!” or “To the bloody idiot who’s making the mistake of her life! Pissed, we are!” (that last one was Dani’s sister, Anna who ended her marriage last year when she found out her husband was having an affair with their “nothing but boobs, teenage bimbo neighbor!”).
At the end of the day, I burst into tears and apologized to Giselle and Mina, who, in response, burst into tears and huddled up with me and Dani, absolutely howling, wailed “You fools!” One thing was established: everyone was really, really pissed.
Another duty I picked up as maid of honor was making sure nothing got in the way at the marvelous wedding day. So I woke up… and sprinted right to the toilet bowl. After about half an hour of throwing up, I made some super strong coffee and rolled over the three piled up bodies on the giant bed in the suite we’d somehow managed to get back into.
“Wassup – ugh.” Dani was the first to give response.
“You’re getting married, dope!”
Giselle prances out of the bathroom and does a little twirl. “How do I look?”
And before any of us could answer – “Like a total babe, baby,” Mina says without looking up.
Giselle throws her a filthy look and pretends to throw up, then with her nose up in the air, walks to where the bride was being given the final touches. “I need my makeup now.”
Mina rolls her eyes. “Yes, your majesty.”
I laugh as Giselle does a curtsy and her sweetest mock smile. “Alright, I’ll just go down and check on –”
“Taylor Run, I have double and triple checked everything after you about checked it a million times. Please, okay, get changed. It’s already nine-thirty. The guests will be filing in around this time. We’ve got thirty minutes –”
Much inconveniently, Dani decides to burst into tears at this moment. “Thirty minutes! I’m getting married in thirty minutes!”
“Oh dear,” Mina mutters. Then raising her voice a bit, “Er, honey, could you please, er, hold your tears in?”
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Dani begins blubbering.
Giselle grabs her shoulders and starts shaking her vigorously. She looks as if she’s ready to slap her. “Get. A. Grip. Danielle Rachel Mackinson, have you or have you not lived for this moment! Have you or have you not always dreamed of this moment! Have you or have not spent the past twenty-seven years of your life wanting for –”
“Okay, okay! This isn’t the time for an ultimatum!” Mina pushes Giselle aside. “Let’s get it on!”
I roll my eyes and leave them to bicker. Picking up my garment bag and my little blue shoulder bag, I go into the luxurious bathroom. I’d bathed this morning after my quickly shaken-off hangover. But after all the rushing around, I feel the need to do it again. And it would be such a waste… I sigh as I look around this ridiculous bathroom.
Stripping off the pink T-shirt with big silver wordings “My BEST FRIEND’S GETTING MARRIED!” that Dani gifted me with when she revealed that she and Peter were getting married and jeans, I bite my lip, looking at my reflection in the mirror.
My dyed-dark waves of hair spills over my shoulders, all the way down my waist, framing my silhouette with clarity. I am… average. No more could I say about myself.
“But you’ve got boobs!” Giselle always said in outrage, what with her, quote, washboard of a figure. It always had me snorting with laughter.
“And an awesome ass,” Mina observed with her eyebrows raised. This, I found highly unnerving, immediately grabbing whatever piece of garment I could find to cover my behind.
But what concerned me is my tummy. I face the way, looking into the mirror sideways. Oh, gee. I’m gonna have to get to another diet. I have the craziest idea of diets, said Dani. And we’re all friends with a model, too.
And yet, so, compared to Giselle with her magazine-cover looks, Dani with her sweetness, adorability and angelic appearance, and Mina with her successful charm and intimidating attractiveness, I am like the girl-next-door, plain but a little pretty, approachable, pleasant, not beautiful, not angelic, not striking, not sexy, not cute, not particularly anything. But comfortable. I’m comfortable in my own golden cream skin.
My faded denim eyes are circled with shadows, weary, weary, weary, they shout. It’s been two weeks since I’ve had a good night’s sleep. My hair is unkempt even thought I have tried to make it seem at least partly in order this morning. I wrinkle my little nose.
I take a quick shower, making sure I don’t wet my hair. After drying my cleaned body, I carefully unzipped the garment bag and slipped the dress out of it. I smiled down at it, admiring the pretty little yellow dress. Mine’s an off-shoulder cutting, long and flowing. Like they say it: The best part is – you can shorten it and wear it again! Which, to be fair, has never been true, until now. The history of ugly dresses for your best mates/family members have been slaughtered since being in the cunning edge of fashion turned into an essentiality, especially when you’re in NYC.
I gently put on the dress. I unclasp my shoulder bag, pulling out my own makeup kit. Despite the fact that I can have Mina do my makeup, I’d hate to bother her, especially with buzzing Giselle and antsy Danielle.
But first, my hair… I take out an old black rubber band and wrap it around my long hair, making a lose bun. So quick, so simple. I’m ready. But I decide to put a little more effort this time around. I pick up a stack of bobby pins and secure the bun. Then I grab the curler that Giselle left lying there and twirl my chin-length bangs around it. All done. I look into the mirror and started doing weird poses, like I’m a teenager again, winking and blowing kisses at my reflection.
Then this buzzing sound comes and a smell overwhelms me.
“AAGGGHHHH!”
I whip around, hands over face, and am sure I just had a heart attack for – “Wilhelmina!”
“Cute little poses there,” she says nonchalantly, utterly unaffected by my embarrassment, continuing to spray hairspray all over my head.
“I didn’t hear you come in!” I squeak, all tears and nerves.
“Aw, babes, it’s no big deal, yeah. Now how still, we got’a make sure yur hair’s shinin’,” she starts speaking in her strange Mina accent, a blend between some
I shake my head in utter exasperation.
“Rite then, naw, we gotta get’cha mekup dawn, naw yeh?”
I snort. “Cut it out, Mina.”
She smile and looks like an angel. “Alright now, c’mon, let’s get that makeup down.” Sounding more like her
“Oh, no.” I shake my head and wave my hands around dismissively. “Go on. Get Giselle perfectly done, or she’d start whining about professional makeup artists and crap like that.”
“Alright, babe.” Then with a wink, added, “Keep up that kind of behavior and you’ll find yourself higher on the lesbian scale –”
I’m not sure to be flattered or plunge for the toilet.
“– and you’re already a ten.”
Thud. The door swings shut.
I give myself the moment for one last snort at Mina’s absurdity, then begin applying my makeup. My fingers move expertly across the big box of makeup – all gifts from Mina, with her contacts and all got a lot of free makeup. Foundation… concealer… black eyeliner… different shades brown eye shadow… eyebrow pencil… eyelash curler… mascara… lip color... lip gloss… lip liner.
“Okay, okay… Jewelry, jewelry,” I mutter to myself, my fingers flicking through my bag. I pull out a wooden jewel-encrusted box. It used to be my mom’s, and my grandmother’s. And there’s a beautiful story behind this mysterious box. A couple of years ago, I wrote a short story on it, thought it seemed more like I was just telling a story than writing a fiction, and entered it in a short story competition. That story of mine got published in a compilation of short stories from several writing competitions, under an alias.
This took place in the early nineteen-hundreds – to my grandmother.
Truthfully, it was just another story, placed under “once upon a time”, set to be forgotten, of, well, nothing particularly special, because it has been repeated in fictions, in reality, in imagination – of forbidden love.
She was engaged to a rich man, for her family. And he came around, being a wanderer, poor and outcast. But there was so much more than that
They grew up together, Grandmamma and Grandpapa, more than friends. Insanely close and did absolutely everything together, despite the fact that back then, it was unadvisable for a girl to stand next to a boy the way Grandmamma did with Grandpapa. And the traveler was an orphan, with a wife who was stolen by his own brother, spiraled into depression and ran.
She was on her way to meet her fiancé, her best friend, when she bumped into a man, tired, wasted and covered in filth. She fell and he caught her. Literally, but soon to be figurative.
She said, it was a chilly morning and she was in a hurry. Her hair tightly knotted upon her head and her face pale as she saw it before leaving home earlier. She never liked the cold. Even covered in her heavy dress, she was unable to feel warm. She was going to tell her fiancé today, that she had been offered a job, and to ask for his permission.
Now, the thing about Grandpa is that he was smitten by her. Not just her beauty, her posture and good-nature but also her independence, her strength and her cheekiness for someone of that time. He would say yes to anything. Grandmamma wasn’t aware of that. They were a good pair that way. Respectable and loving.
She was hurtled to the floor when she got hit by a man, all covered up and pale. He apologized and hurried away.
He ended up being a freelance writer who was temporarily settling down, working with her in editorial of the local paper. And they hit it off well. However… well, we all know how these stories go, back in that century.
Grandmamma never found it in her heart to tell him about Grandpapa, because she found it sinful and even more if he knew she was sinful. They kissed once. Just once. And nothing more.
She wasn’t sure if she loved him. But knew there was undeniably a spark. No more, she said, no more. And she convinced herself so. And she was right. Because when it came to choosing, there was no choice.
Grandmamma came clean, confessing to Grandpapa, unable to keep such a secret from him. She risked losing him, but she knew she could let the strange wanderer who wandered into her life go, and not the man who was there for her every step of the way. She didn’t though.
He forgave her. And they got married.
“Ah, the nerve of inviting him,” Grandmamma always said when she got to this part of the story.
The wanderer didn’t attend the wedding, but left a gift.
A highly polished wooden box, brown and smooth, was laid on the doorstep of the couple’s new home. The rim of the box was welded in gold, with a keyhole along with a tiny, elegant-looking key. Above the keyhole, a sapphire was encrusted in between two emeralds and several tiny, glittering crystals. Inside the box laid a letter –
“Dearest Miranda,
You are a sapphire, the brightest and most beautiful one out there. And to Tyson, who has her now, encrusted within you, like this handsome wooden case I give her. May I have the pleasure of seeing my dear Mary again, by then surrounded by emeralds and crystals of your own, with the lucky Tyson, your husband. To the newlyweds.
Sincerely, Jack Witham”
He had disappeared after that, Jack Witham.
And Grandmamma used to joke about it, how I would see him again, while she was sick, and thought she wouldn’t make it – though she always, always does pull through and is still healthy and will remain so for many, many years more: that I would see Jack’s grandson one day and fall in love with him, and his charm and gentlemanly ways, if he was anything like Jack himself. Grandpapa liked the idea of that. “I owed him one. He’s a good man, I could tell. And my Mary’s not going anywhere, after all. Now, little
Jack Witham, wherever he is, I wish he can see this. He is after all, not forgotten. And not resented either.
And this once upon a time, shall not be forgotten, with the remaining of the jewel-encrusted box that will be passed along generation after the other, in my hands now, along with this beautiful story.
Ava White
I am obviously not that good of a writer. But maybe it was the story that captivated them. Just the story, and not how it was written. I’ve always felt a little abashed, that such lousy phrasing got myself into a published book. And a bit grateful I hadn’t put my real name – think of the embarrassment.
Of course Grandpapa and Grandmamma as well as Mom and Damon know. But that was it. Even the girls have no idea. They’ve always found it funny I had a book of short stories written by high-schoolers in the last decade lying around in my apartment.
I remember Dani swooning to the idea of long lost lovers and Mina criticizing the lame phrasing but grudgingly admitting it was a good story – courtesy of “the girl’s grandma only”, which I cannot deny. Giselle had trouble reading it.
I opened it, my fingers hugging the ancient wood frame. Inside laid tiny trinkets, like intricate little silver rings, pairs of vivid earrings, two or three chunky bracelets, a silver anklet, a golden heart necklace that Mom gave me when I turned sixteen, a string necklace, several necklace tags and one last thing, a plastic ring. Plain, white.
I remember it like it was yesterday, without being cliché.
A childhood promise.
“You’ll be my wife.” That toothy, glinting grin – always, always in my head.
“Silly! We don’t even know anything yet.”
His face turns serious. “I know a lot of things.”
“Like what?”
“Like how to get us home.”
“Then why are we still lost?”
“Becaauuusee…” he thought long and hard, then changed the subject. “Do you know what lost means?”
I pouted. “Yes. It means we don’t know where we are.”
He gave this knowing smile. A mysterious smile. Like he had a secret. “Right. But you know what? You’re can’t be lost. You’re not lost. I found you.”
And instantly, I was found.
It was a different feeling. A relief. Like I was saved. Because I wasn’t a very welcomed kid. Just because I was a little different. I didn’t fit in. But he found me. And he had my heart since then.
But he disappeared from my life. Like a shadow. Gone when the light shone too brightly. ’Cause after we walked out of the woods, while I was being held so tightly I was going to die by my mom, he was gone. And nobody saw him. I never saw him again.
The ring no longer fit me. But I always kept it with me. I had to hold on to it. I just have to.
Time washes away a lot of things. Memories and feelings and everything less important in between. But somehow, I just couldn’t let this fade away.
Years of boyfriends, I’ve gained some sort of cynicism. I’d like to think that maybe, just maybe there are good guys out there. Guys who keep promises. Guys that make you feel safe and warm. Guys that make you feel found. Part of me has been nagging at myself for all these years, telling myself that for all I knew, he forgot all about me and became just like those other heartbreakers. But I banished that thought out of my head easily every time.
I string the ring into my string necklace and wrap it around my neck, twisting the clasp in place. It still makes me feel safe. And that felt so wrong.
A loud knocking sends me fidgeting all over.
“What?” I fluster.
“Tay?” Silence. “Can I come in?”
“Yeah.”
The door creaks open, a gap at first, then fully. “Taylor? Are you okay?”
Black tousled hair, dark concerned eyes, pale complexion, tall and well-built. Damon. In a full black tux, no tie, top button undone. My Damon.
Well, sort of.
“Hey.” I don’t bother to muster my fake smile.
“Feeling off again?” He smiles in a sad sort of way.
I laugh. “Maybe. I was just thinking.”
My hands trail past the ring around my neck. And I saw it, his eyes flash across my neck, at the ring, hard and black, burning, then away.
Silence.
“Are you okay?” I turn the question around.
As always. “Yes.” He brushes it off so easily. He remains silent for a moment more, eyes on the ground. Then clears his throat and reaches out a hand.
I take it unthinkingly. “Where are we heading to?”
The nerves are kicking in. I hate being in crowds, let alone in front of them. I fidget more than usual, and my neck keeps twisting about.
“Relax, Taylor,” he soothes. And I calm down immediately.
Damon is my life-long friend. My best friend, without offense to my girlfriends. He was my childhood friend. Not exactly from when we were in diapers or when we were in kindergarten. It was when we were twelve. He was the awkward kid who just moved to our little town but wasn’t really… awkward. He was cool, unbothered. He didn’t talk to anyone much. He didn’t give a damn if he was teased and mocked. He simply never cared. But that was the funny thing. He didn’t care. But he cared about me.
It was his first day in school. My just another day. It was recess and I was being teased about how ironic my name was – the fact that it was Run and I could barely run a mile – not without tripping over my own feet and ending up with a deep cut in my forehead, the ER. He suddenly stood up and the classroom went silent. He didn’t look at anybody else. Just right at me. And I wasn’t exactly sure of what to expect, but I braced myself for if it was another attacker. When he reached me, he didn’t look at me anymore, just straight away, picked up my hand and dragged me away from the post-taunting kids. From that day on, I was never bothered with the other kids either. Because I had my friend. My best friend. Thought it honestly never helped the taunting. I mean, you know how it’s like when you have a guy best friend.
But he became everything to me. Not just a best friend. He was my date to dances I couldn’t get. He was my study buddy. He was my punching bag. He was the shoulder I cried on. And he was my first kiss.
The memory of it makes my stomach flip and I laugh out loud. He looks at me curiously but doesn’t ask.
We were sixteen. My birthday, September 10th 1999. Mom and Dad were away and I was convinced I was going to have a terrible sweet sixteen. So Damon, who was already sixteen with a driver’s license, took me away for the day. Snuck me away, to be precise. My parents have no idea to this day. Roadtrip. We really had no idea where we were going. I was in this off-white dress he bought me. And when we got pulled over for speeding, the officer stared at us.
“Newlyweds?” he grunted, his piggy eyes glinting.
We nearly burst out laughing, but we looked at each other and held it in. I winked at him and mouthed, follow my lead. Turning back to the officer, I gave him my sweetest smile. “Yes, officer. Do you think you could make an exception, just for the day?”
He scratched his chin, his moustache twitching. “Well… alright.” Then he smiled. “It’s good to see there’s still some love in the world. Me and ma wife just split, you see.” His head lowered.
My lips parted, filling with pity and caught off-guard. “Oh. I’m sorry, sir.”
He waved a hand around dismissively. “Nah, that’s alright.” He smiled. “Young, you two are. Hold on to each other now. We were young when we got married. Then it just didn’t work out.” He shook his head sadly.
“Why didn’t it work out?” I asked sympathetically.
“Well.” He paused. “My son’s a bit of a troublemaker, you see. And he landed himself in jail for brawling.”
Damon and I exchanged a look. Oh dear.
“So I… had to arrest ma own son.” His eyes filled with tears.
“Oh, dear,” I muttered. Then I picked out a piece of tissue from the box on the dashboard. “Here.”
He took it and dabbed his eyes. “Thanks, dearie. You two take care now. Young kids. Newlyweds. Ah. There’s so much I think about seeing y’all.”
We smiled weakly back at him. We gave him his time, let him get a grip. Then he cleared his throat and said the fateful words.
“Now show me a kiss!”
Damon and I looked at each other, eyes wide. Oh shite.
“Don’t be shy now.”
“Umm… I’m not sure if we’re comfortable with that,” Damon murmured, speaking for the first time.
“C’mon now! Won’t let an old man down, will you?” He looked at us expectantly.
I half-smiled at Damon and gave a “what’re you gonna do” shrug and leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. He actually tried to dodge it, halfway there. I gave him a penetrating stare and he stopped fidgeting. And I let my lips land right on his cheek, lingering there for a second or two.
“Oh, that wasn’t a real kiss. Ah, you kids. Leave it for later then. Suppose you’re off to honeymoon?” he babbled on in the background. My eyes were all for Damon.
His scent that I was so familiar with, that warm sweet scent. It overwhelmed me then. And he stared right back at me, making a deep part of me light up.
“We’ll be going now, if you don’t mind,” Damon said absentmindedly, eyes still on me.
“That’s alright. Take care now!”
Damon’s eyes lingered on mine until the officer was gone, then they were on the road and he was speeding off again.
We ended up in some deserted beach on the west coast, in his old red mustang, watching the sun set. Then it began.
My eyes moved from the beautiful view in front of me to the even more beautiful one beside me. And his eyes were closed. Lying there, looking so carefree. So irresistible. There was no denying it now. I was every bit attracted to him as all those drooling girls I called pathetic.
I moved in. I leaned over, eyes slowly closing. My breath bated, and my heart drummed the fastest it ever had. And then…
Beep beep beep.
My eyes flew open in time to see his fly open. Oh no.
I leaned back immediately, face aflame, eyes on the sunset again.
“Hello?” he answered his phone, his quiet voice sounding thoughtful.
Pause. “No. I’m with Taylor.” Pause. “Yeah.” Pause. “No.” Pause. “Sure.” Pause. “Maybe.” Pause. “No.” Pause. “I’m staying with her.” Pause. “Okay.”
And he snapped his cell off. I had snuck my eyes back on him while he was talking on the phone. I was about to look away again when he caught my eye. There was some dark amusement in his eyes. And I felt like a child who was caught doing something wrong. But I was so mesmerized by the color in his eyes. I didn’t move.
Then it happened slowly.
Every little detail is carved into my mind. The way he placed his elbow on the seat, the way his eyes opened and closed slowly, the way he leaned over, the way he let his eyelids fall shut, the way his lips closed in over mine… the way his lips moved with mine.
And when it was over, when his face left mine for about an inch, our eyes opened and we stared at each other. And we didn’t talk the whole way we drove home.
And we never did talk about that kiss.
Because by the end of the week, there were already admirers lining up for him, I assumed it didn’t bother him. So that was that.
An accident. Meant to be forgotten.
But impossible to forget.
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